


Crimson Trail

by Oliver__Niko



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Black Eagles Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Black Eagles Sylvain Jose Gautier, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-War, Romance, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25016581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oliver__Niko/pseuds/Oliver__Niko
Summary: Based on non-Azure Moon ending.Nostalgia and past emotions arise when Sylvain and Felix are finally reunited for the latter's job. The two stay in touch more frequently afterwards, neither ready to let each other go--not even Felix, who has long since pushed everyone else away.When Sylvain receives Felix's sword, he has one thought in mind to begin with; Felix has taken his life, sending this sword as a goodbye. He's soon to be hit with a realisation no less harsh than this. Felix is not the sender, and his life could be in danger by whoever is.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a fic based on Crimson Flower Sylvix for a while, especially with the imagery of Felix turning up on Gautier's doorstep, on the brink of death, playing on my mind. I finally developed my vague ideas into a fic I can work with. I hope you enjoy!

The mercenary straightens with the calmness of one used to swinging the sword in his hand. Blood drips from his blade. There’s little remorse in him as eyes of topaz take in the figure on the ground. One might say he’s accustomed to death, including that by his own hands. If it’s true, it doesn’t apply here. This man is simply a dog needed to be put down.

“Burn in hell,” says Felix Hugo Fraldarius, taking out a piece of cloth from inside his jacket; he refuses to have his sword be rusted by the blood of a man so evil.

His head turns at the sound of soldiers on his side. It has felt strange, not working alone. That is all he’s done since becoming a mercenary after the end of the war. A certain idiot was simply far too persistent in not allowing Felix to complete this mission alone, merely wishing for his help as such a renowned swordsman.

It’s not so much the compensation that convinced Felix to say yes. As always, he is simply kept alive by his duties, and he wanted to see justice be given to a man who deserves it.

And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a sense of nostalgia in this battle.

“You got him!” says the voice he knows so well. The sound of hooves approaches Felix, his eyes flickering up at the man mounting it.

He’s still adjusting to seeing Sylvain’s face again for the first time in so long. A dozen years have passed since Edelgard claimed her victory. It’s a long time to not see someone you have known all your life. Such a long-lasting friendship, existing even before Felix can remember, when he was a baby cradled in the insistent arms of a toddler wanting to care for his soon-to-be best friend.

They’ve corresponded from time to time. Have to, if Felix was to receive this mission at all. But this has been the first time they’ve actually seen each other.

Sylvain is different, but also not deeply as such at the same time. He’s a father, for one thing. A _father._ Him, someone who spent so much time flitting between women. He holds himself in a mature manner. Proudly reclaiming the name of Gautier for himself once his father died, using his awful upbringing as a means to rebuild his home, fix its issues from within, rather than allow it to fall as Felix has with his own.

He drops down from his horse, Lance of Ruin in hand, and he’s smiling. That’s not so different, aside from the facial hair surrounding it. How it’s a genuine smile, with suffering somewhere inside all the same.

“Is that all of them, now?” asks Felix.

“Yeah. Some of my men are retrieving the children.” Sylvain’s grip noticeably tightens on his lance. “It sickens me. Crest experiments, even now after the steps Edelgard is making to ensure those without Crests are treated no different.”

“That is why people like me are here to do the dirty work.”

“And that is very much appreciated.” A moment of silence, before Sylvain says, “Felix, I’ve missed you.”

Felix isn’t sure on how to respond. He perhaps has as well, although it’s difficult to tell one source of sadness from another. His heart hasn’t been the same, ever since he watched Dimitri fall. “Twelve years is a long time,” he says instead.

“It is. You haven’t grown, though.”

It seems to be a method to tease, joke around, yet Felix merely answers, “I wouldn’t expect to from my early twenties.”

“Still, your hair.”

“Mm. That’s changed.” He’s often debated cutting the long ponytail he wears these days, snaking down to his shoulder blades even when worn high on his head, although there’s a slither of personality, of enjoyment, left in him that appreciates the aesthetic of it.

“Margrave Gautier, sir! We’ve found the children!”

“Oh, thank the Goddess.” Sylvain’s voice is almost breathless.

The children are in an awful state. Blood dripping from heads and lips, bruises, ripped and torn clothes. Even Felix, who is no stranger to such horrid sights during his work, finds his stomach twisting—especially when he notices the white hair of a child experimented on successfully.

“Hey, guys.” Sylvain’s voice is gentle, and he kneels on the ground in front of them. “You’re all safe now, I promise. We’re going to get you somewhere safe and reunite you with your families.”

“They killed mine,” says one child. Felix closes his eyes, haunted with the image of his father at the end of his own blade.

Sylvain is stronger in this moment when he says, “There will be love for you out there all the same. I promise.”

The children are soon led to carriages. The pair watch after them, Sylvain’s men preparing to mount their own horses, a few tending to injuries before they depart. Nostalgia has long since faded, gone perhaps not long after the smile they shared when fighting alongside each other; all that remains is this cold reality.

“If you return with me to the Gautier house, I can give you your reward,” says Sylvain.

“Do you not have it with you? I can take it here and be on my way.”

“Don’t you want time to rest? To join in with our celebratory meal?”

Celebrations, huh? Felix has almost forgotten they exist. “That’s all right. I’m always on the move.”

“Still, I thought you might want to slow down, just this once.” Sylvain chuckles, completely void of humour, eyes filled with disappointment. Felix cannot look into them for more than a second. “It’s just—twelve years, Felix. I don’t know if I want to see you leave yet.”

“Why? With what I’ve become?”

“Felix—”

“You’re caught up on the memories of me. I’m not the same as I was back then.” Felix’s fingers feel over the handle of his blade. He remembers a time where he would speak passionately of this Sword of Zoltan, of any sword in his possession, at that. Even when the grief from Glenn’s death consumed him, this passion was one source of light for him, an area where his old personality could shine through.

Now he’s too numb to truly care. Is there any personality left in him, other than his polished instincts to survive? Is the so-called sense of fulfilment actually that at all when he helps to put criminals down, or is it merely the drug of adrenaline running through his veins that keeps him alive?

Kept alive by blood on his hands. How ironic.

“Even if you’re not the same, it’s still … you.”

“That doesn’t mean much, either. I’m not the sort of person to keep around.”

“What if _I_ want you to be around?”

Felix tries to smile, but he can’t. “Then you’re a fool. If you have the reward with you now, I’ll take it and be on my way. Perhaps our paths will cross again should you have another job for me.”

There’s the clear wish to argue written on Sylvain’s face, although even he seems to know nothing will come from it. Instead, he nods. “I hope that it will at least help you.”

The Margrave returns minutes later. A large bag of gold—Felix will only use enough to keep him up with supplies until his next reward—and something else that catches his eye more. A sword is in Sylvain’s other hand.

“That blade you have isn’t Zoltan’s only creation,” says Sylvain, holding it out. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

All right, perhaps not all the passion inside Felix has burned away in the fire of war. Something _does_ stir inside him when bringing his eyes to that blade. It’s merely the tiniest of sparks, however. Hardly enough to combat the darkness surrounding his heart.

Even so, as he takes it, he says, “Thank you. I’ll be sure to take good care of it.”

“I know you will. You’ve had the other one for so long, yet look at it … Still in such good shape.” Sylvain chuckles to himself. “I remember how surprised I used to be to find that you’re not in the training grounds. It always turned out you were hidden away in your room because you didn’t want to see people, and you’d be tending to all your swords, keeping them in good condition.”

“It’s always helped to relax me,” says Felix, almost … fond, over the memory.

“Yeah. I could tell. And you—”

“Margrave Gautier!” calls a voice from within the trees nearby. “We should be on our way!”

“I’m coming!” Pain returns to Sylvain’s eyes when they return to Felix. “Felix?”

“Mm?”

“Do you remember that promise we made when we were kids? About us dying together?”

Felix’s eyes close for a moment, head turning away. Of course he does, even now. “Obviously.”

“I’m still holding onto that promise. Even now, after how long we’ve been apart.”

“What do you reckon I should do? Return to you so we can grow to ripe old ages and die at the same time?”

Sylvain manages a smile. “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. And you know, I never got that hug, either.”

“Not hugging you now. No matter how long it’s been.” Still, as Felix turns around, he finds himself torn between the aching in his chest and the smile that is trying to break out on his face. “But perhaps I’ll see you around. You know you can count on me.”

“Yes. And you can on me, no matter what happens to you.”

It finally appears; the slightest smile. Felix wonders if Sylvain can tell it’s there, even whilst Felix’s back faces him. He begins to walk away, footsteps stopping only for a moment when Sylvain speaks again.

“I mean it, you know. Don’t go dying on me.”

* * *

A few months have passed since this job. Somehow, the emotions from seeing Sylvain again have managed to linger. It likely doesn’t help that messenger owls find him more frequently these days. How he cannot resist the urge to write back as well. The correspondence is a reminder of how back then, before the two parted ways once again, Felix managed the first smile in years, however slight.

Memories are usually suppressed. He cannot stand them. They’re stained by the deaths of a number of people he once called friends. He sees their eyes, hears their laughter, and remembers that even in the situations where his blade had not been the one to kill, it would be the fate decided by his newly found comrades, and his hands will still be stained with blood by being on their side.

However, it may be that his mind is allowing him to think of fonder memories. Ones that do not bring such heavy nausea in his stomach. Brief moments, even when Felix’s chaotic mind never stops rushing at a million miles an hour, where he and Sylvain would be … happy. Perhaps. It’s difficult for Felix to remember if he ever had joy, but there were certainly moments where they would smile, even laugh.

And there is one day that stands out among the rest. One that Felix has forced away until now, and it resurfaces with the greatest amount of emotion he has felt in a long time.

He stares at the fire lit in front of him, illuminating the night, and wonders if these emotions could burn as brightly if he were to allow them.

“Hmph,” he says aloud, getting to his feet. There is little use in dwelling on such matters, so why is he doing so now? Even as he and Sylvain speak that little more again through written words, it’s still not enough to wind back time to a certain blissful moment in their lives, where the world vanished before crushing down on him once again.

He glances around to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. Leaving the fire lit is a good idea; if there’s any bandits in the area who have seen the smoke, there’s no use in putting it out to try and hide how he’s been here now. Perhaps it will draw them in instead.

Of course, Felix could take them out anyway, without any problems at all. He’s simply not too sure if his heart is in that today.

He walks through the evening, sky dark with a slither of deep red from the remaining sunset, wondering where to sleep today. There’s a town nearby, perhaps another hour to reach it. It has been a while since he slept in a bed. Perhaps tonight, he can grant himself that at least.

There’s something in the air. He shivers. Still walking calmly, however, hand resting on the handle of his blade; the very one gifted to him for completing the Margrave’s job. He can take it from its sheath in a flash if he must. Being attacked on the road is hardly uncommon, so much so he doesn’t expect to walk anywhere without it.

So why does it feel different tonight? He’s hit with a strange sense of dread, one that is sending his senses into overdrive. It’s not simply anxiety. He’s known for a long time to trust his intuition. His instincts tell him turning back will not be good for him either, and so, he decides to simply keep pushing on.

He freezes minutes later. Figures up ahead. He takes his blade between his hands, eyes flicking between them. It’s a little hard to tell in the increasing darkness, but there seems to be ten. Not too bad. He’s a lone wolf; he works better alone, and with a higher amount of opponents.

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius. That really is you.”

Felix straightens slightly out of curiosity. The gap betweens them closes; he soon recognises the face of the man who speaks. Doesn’t know his name, only that snarl and the arched eyebrows on his face. “Oh, I remember you guys. You were part of those ex-kingdom soldiers, right? Bandits now, aren’t you? Or something like that.”

“ _So_ honoured you’d remember us. Do you remember the faces of those among us you killed, too?”

“Maybe if you weren’t murdering yourself,” says Felix, slowly as though speaking to someone ignorant, “I wouldn’t have killed them.”

“As though there’s any sin in killing some Empire brats,” the man spits. Felix notices the others with him are moving, perhaps to circle around Felix. Not on his watch, he thinks, as he leaps back to keep them all in view. He’s not going to humour this guy forever. He simply needs to figure out the best course of action on how to attack. “Besides. I was talking about before then, too. When you decided to betray your country.”

“Oh, we’re still touchy over that, are we?” says Felix.

“You’re damn fucking right we are. The sooner we can get the heads of you and that Margrave, the better.”

“Sylvain? Hah. Those who aren’t blinded enough to kill Empire citizens, like you are, adore him. He’s done a lot for this country since the end of the war, no matter the path the two of us took to get there. Good luck being able to kill him.”

“It’s not likely that we will. But you, Fraldarius? A wandering lone wolf? That is far easier.”

“Not going to deny it’s simpler.” Felix tightens his grip, holding his blade out in front of him. “But _far_ easier? You underestimate me.”

His eyes flash to the side. Pure instinct is what urges him to turn around and raise his sword, managing to deflect an arrow shot at him. He narrows his gaze.

“There’s more of you.” Within the trees he imagines, shadowed by the darkening night.

“We’ve been tracking you down for a while now, Fraldarius. You really think it was just going to be us?”

“Perhaps not. But I’m still impressed.”

His head swings to the side. He manages to swiftly block a sword thrust in his direction. Pushes them back, rolling out of the way of a lancer who has also stepped out into the fray. He blows strands of hair off his face. Adrenaline itches through him, telling him what to do, heart racing—but he’s careful. Careful enough to notice the brightness of magic in the distance, breaking through the darkness.

He dodges out of the way. Fingertip drawing sigils into the air, sending his own Thoron spell back. A swing of his sword at another swordsman. Leaping back, eyes frantically scanning the area.

He still can’t find the precise number, but there’s several times more than what he expected. Shit. Even for him, that’s not the best.

Time to scrap useless pride. His strongest skill is his speed, and he uses that when he leaps off the balls of his feet and sprints towards the trees. Be it to flee or to simply put space between them to tackle them one by one. He isn’t sure in this moment, mind constantly calculating every new factor coming into play.

He rolls to evade an arrow. His steps take him towards that archer. A yell of pain, far from foreign on his ears, when Felix’s sword swipes at them. He sidesteps from a swordsman, cursing under his breath over how difficult it is to see in the night’s darkness.

This includes the person who has leaped into the air and smashes gauntlets against his head.

He stumbles from the force, somehow managing to swing his blade at them, although his ears are ringing, stars in his vision. _Get a hold of yourself, idiot!_ But no amount of yelling at himself in his mind will stop him from swaying on the spot this way.

Another swing of his sword, purely by reflex. A Thunder spell at someone he sees in the darkness. The magic temporarily lights the night. It allows him to see an arrow, although not soon enough for him to dodge before it collides with his leg.

“ _Shit!”_ he hisses. He’s brought down to one knee. Nauseous, light-headed, all so rapidly. He yanks out the arrow. The teeth on his bottom lip isn’t enough to fully muffle a cry of pain. He’s fumbling across the ground, trying to back himself into the coverage of bushes; he knows from the sudden intense trembling in his legs, their weakness, that something isn’t right.

His fingertips pull back torn fabric and his fears are confirmed. Poison. Not enough to kill him, no, but more than enough to weaken him. His mind is becoming less coherent. Vision blurring, grip on his sword far, far too loose.

A hand is soon grasping at his hair. It pulls him out from the bushes, throwing him to the floor. A kick to his face. He splutters, strangely mesmerised by the blood splattering on the ground beneath him. They turn him over on his back. His vision is much too blurred to properly make out the figure hovering above him, but he can assume from what he _can_ see that it’s the leader of the group.

His head rises at the blade that finds his neck. He’s managed to lose his grip on his sword somehow, and he scrambles for it, but the world is spinning, he’s panting, and the pain searing straight through his bloodstream is almost unbearable. Even for him.

“And to think, you’re such a renowned mercenary.” The voice is distant, although loud all at once; Felix’s senses are haywire. “Bet it’s damaging your pride, isn’t it, that you’ve finally been taken down?”

The knife cuts his throat. Far from enough to kill him. But that is on its way; this much is obvious. He highly doubts this group will go through so much trouble only to not kill him.

He accepts that. Truly. It’s not as though he has felt joy in years. He cannot remember the last time he managed to laugh. He’s simply been surviving, doing what he does best, no other purpose in life waiting for him.

“Kill me, then,” he says, and even though there’s a part of him thinking of Sylvain’s face, the features he has not seen in so long, and even if that face is putting guilt somewhere inside his chest, he means it.

Although he does think of the word _sorry_ when agony from the poison soon succumbs him to darkness.

* * *

“That’s great, thank you.”

The maid bows to Sylvain Jose Gautier before taking her leave. He sifts through the documents handed to him. He’s a little absent-minded today. When his eyes glance out of the window, he cannot help but let his mind wander to how Felix hasn’t responded for some time.

It’s to be expected, really. In fact, even the response to Sylvain’s job for him was enough of a surprise. So Sylvain cannot say he is worried. It’s simply disappointing.

Felix, admittedly, had been right in some of what he had said. He _has_ changed. Glenn’s death had been a dramatic enough change in his life. It snatched away the carefree child Sylvain knew so well. However, as Felix slowly found purpose, let friends in, the old light began to return in his eyes. Now it is gone again.

If it was still there, Sylvain would not worry for the lone wolf lifestyle Felix has adapted. He truly wouldn’t. Perhaps, if Felix was happy, Sylvain would see this as the correct path for him. That is simply not the case in reality. Sylvain cannot help but wonder if fighting is the only thread stopping Felix from breaking at the seams.

Still … had Sylvain been wrong, in wondering if Felix felt something too, by seeing his old friend again? Sylvain certainly had. He wouldn’t say he is miserable in his day-to-day life, not at all. Especially not when he has such a beloved child to care for. But seeing Felix reminded him that he is missing something. Sylvain cannot say what it is, only aware that a hole is filled; although, perhaps, it is all linked back to the day he is sure Felix reminisces over as well.

Sylvain stares out at the mountains in the distance. He wonders how far Felix has gone by now, what he is currently doing, and if he will ever return. Sylvain wants him to. He is the only childhood friend remaining out of the beloved quartet, Sylvain’s heart still breaking when he remembers this fact, although Felix is the one he cannot dare to lose permanently. Not with their promise.

It had been that promise, in fact, that Sylvain clung to when missing Felix. He has known all this time that Felix is alive. He truly is a renowned mercenary, after all. However, when all Sylvain wanted was to see his face again, he clung to that promise, hoping it means that Felix will truly not die before him.

Perhaps it is childish. The two _had_ only been children, after all, when their pinky fingers intertwined and they promised to never die before the other. Although perhaps there is strength in the innocence of two young boys who only care for love.

“Daddy?”

Sylvain turns at the sound of a voice in the doorway. He smiles at the young girl he sees standing there, brunette hair pulled into a ponytail.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“Nothing. I heard you were in here and wanted to come hug you.”

“Oh, Eli. You truly are adorable.” Sylvain leans down, arms outstretched to welcome the small girl into his arms. She giggles when he lifts her straight off her feet and hugs her tight, swaying her from side-to-side.

“Lift me higher!”

“As you wish, princess!”

A squeal is let out when he holds her right above his head. He’s grinning as he lowers her far enough to press their foreheads together. “Don’t tell mommy Dorothea I still do this. She likes to joke about how I’m too old now, and that my back is going to break.”

“ _Is_ it, daddy?”

“Nah, I’m still young. Young as ever, as much as she likes to tease me.” He places Eli down on the floor. “You’ll be back with her next week. Are you excited?”

“Mm … I _am,_ especially to see mama Petra, but,” she shuffles, looking down at her feet, “I always get sad over leaving you, daddy.”

“I know, I know. That’s why we all need to arrange something together soon, don’t we? As soon as we’re all okay to. That way you don’t have to say goodbye to anyone.”

“Yeah. And you need to get yourself a new wife or husband, so I can have _another_ parent.”

Sylvain laughs, ruffling her hair. “Greedy, aren’t you? We’ll see what happens.” There’s a pause, and he finds that the smile on his face is both warm and pained all at once. “You know, I’m going to be trying to get someone I really care about to come here and meet you. He’s an old friend of mine, and we saw each other a while ago, for the first time in a very long time.”

Eli hums, swaying on her feet with a cheeky smile. “Would _he_ be your husband?”

“Hold your horses there, angel,” Sylvain laughs. “But he is important to me, for sure. I would adore for you both to meet.”

“If he’s important to you, why did you not see each other for a very long time?”

“That’s a very good question.” His voice has quietened, pain finding his chest all over again, but he does his best to smile again. “Come on. I know you love watching the chef cook, and he’ll be starting dinner around now.”

“ _Yes!”_

Before Sylvain can even react, Eli has sprinted out of the room in a little blur. He chuckles and shakes his head in a good-natured manner whilst he follows. There’s a jog to his step, although he’s in no rush. There’s always something charming about following her lead when she has already become mesmerised by the chef’s work, perhaps sometimes joining in should the possibility arise.

There’s a hum under his breath, his spirits once again lifted. They are soon to come crashing straight down again.

“Margrave Gautier,” says a soldier in the foyer, standing to attention. “Quite an unusual gift has arrived for you.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“This, sir.”

Another soldier steps forward, holding out a long object sitting atop a velvet sheet. Sylvain takes it into his arms. For a moment, he’s completely confused on why he’s holding a sword. Any military weapons, after all, are sent in general purchases of equipment.

But then it hits him. How this very handle, the long blade, are the rare features of the sword gifted to Felix for his job four months ago.

“What?” he can only say, voice barely above a murmur.

“That is the sword you gave as a reward to the mercenary, is it not, sir?”

“… Yes. Yes, that is right.” Sylvain cannot take his eyes away from that blade. A certain image recalls in his memory; the lit-up expression, even if only slight, as Felix held onto this sword. “Who sent this?”

“We do not know, sir,” says the first soldier. “The sender gave no note or address. We had to have it tested for curses to ensure it has not been sent as a weapon against you, however it truly is simply a sword.”

“I … I see. I will look into this matter.” He finally manages to meet the soldiers’ faces. “Please send someone to inform my daughter that I am caught up in matters. She will be in the kitchens.”

“Most certainly, sir.”

Sylvain is glad to be alone, for the moment he is as such, his dignified expression can finally break underneath his deepest fears.

* * *

The peaceful serenity of the gardens are far from enough to settle Sylvain down. He sits among the most beautiful plants, the flow of a fountain nearby soothing in theory, yet not reality. The blade is rested on his lap. Hunched over, Sylvain’s fingers glide over the smooth steel, a million thoughts running through his mind, one a primal focus; what this means for Felix.

If he had been sent this sword sooner, he’d have expected Felix to have simply sent it back, saying he does not need it anyway. Whole months, however, with no note to speak of … Sylvain cannot help but have the utmost dread wash over him.

“Why did you send this to me?” is what he asks.

 _He’s dead,_ is the only thought he receives in response.

What other conclusion is there? Sylvain has been terrified that Felix is on the brink of throwing away his life. He already ventures the world so dangerously, death at every turn. What if their past is too much for his heart to bear? What if, after surviving this long, Felix has had enough?

Sylvain cannot help it. He’s wondering if the last action Felix ever took was to send this blade to Sylvain. A goodbye, perhaps, before taking his own life.

It’s morbid, perhaps thinking of the worst, but what other answer is there? Why else would Felix send this sword back to him? Sylvain brings it closer to himself, breathing out with his head bowed. His chest aches, as does his throat, eyes stinging, yet he does not cry. He’s not particularly sure on why that is. Perhaps he feels as though he cannot do so, when it’s not his place to feel sorrow.

He should have tried harder to convince Felix to return with him. Why had he not offered Felix a permanent job as a mercenary for him? Or at least contacted him sooner with another? Perhaps, just perhaps, this show of care, that Sylvain truly wants him in his life, would have prevented this from happening.

Sylvain struggles to breathe. The death of the third and final childhood friend. Perhaps the one who has been the most cherished of all, their bond different, special, as had been confirmed that day. The day they crossed a certain line.

A tear drips down onto the steel. Another. It reminds him of rain, pouring down over Felix’s face. Masking his tears as he processes the fact it had been his very blade to kill his father.

“ _I suppose I can’t die now,”_ he had said. _“Whether I remain in the House of Fraldarius or not … it’s only me who’s left. And I suppose I’d never hear the last of it in hell with him, if I died a death without honour.”_

The back of Sylvain’s hand wipes his eyes as he sits up straighter. No, something isn’t adding up. Why would Felix send this sword without a single note, should he have truly taken his own life? Whilst Sylvain doesn’t particularly expect a long memoir, he cannot see Felix leaving Sylvain so in the dark through this vagueness. Felix understands how deeply affected Sylvain is by death as well. He wouldn’t leave Sylvain guessing and assuming, not when he himself understands trauma.

So why? Why is there not a simple _“goodbye”_ sent to Sylvain along with this sword? Nothing at all?

Unless it hadn’t been Felix who sent it.

Sylvain shoots to his feet. Is that possible? Could someone else have murdered Felix, sending Sylvain his sword to send that message? Is he captured? Was the sword merely stolen? It’s difficult to say. But every option seems to make far more sense than Felix silently sending his sword, with no explanation as to why.

And if it hadn’t been him, it’s plausible he is danger in this very moment, or his body is left somewhere, anywhere. The thought sends a chill through Sylvain. Sickens him, yet he knows that even if this is the fate of his old best friend, he’d rather see it than live forever in the dark.

“I need some of our forces to gather,” is the order Sylvain issues the moment he returns to the manor. “We’re on the search for Felix Hugo Fraldarius. He could be in danger around these parts.”

A kiss on his daughter’s cheek and murmured apology lead Sylvain to joining in with those he has beckoned to carry out a search. He’s terrified it will be fruitless, that no answers will be waiting for him and he is left with this uncertainty on Felix’s fate for the rest of his life, but he cannot allow himself to sit by all because of those fears.

Not when Felix could be waiting for him as they speak.

* * *

Sylvain’s fingers brush against the ground. Eyes thoughtful, a furrowed brow, as he touches the blood staining blades of grass. Completely dry. The darkened crimson blends with green in ugly harmony.

“What do you think?”

The Margrave straightens up, eyes landing on the grey-haired knight before him; Ashe Ubert, a survivor from the war. “There’s a fair amount of blood around here, but we can’t say if it’s because of him. People do fight all over the place, after all—it could have also been a wolf hunting prey, anything of the sort. Besides …”

“It’s already been a month since you received the sword,” Ashe finishes for him, face crestfallen. “So should it even be Felix’s blood on the off chance, he would have long since left here.”

“Yes. Precisely.”

The more time passes, the more Sylvain finds his heart ache with the realisation that it is growing more and more unlikely they will ever find Felix. He’s sent word to other factions across the continent to ask for them to keep an eye out and spare troops if possible. However, the unfortunate reality Sylvain must face in a strong military role, is how they cannot spare too many resources for this cause. If it were possible, Sylvain would have as many men as possible searching far and wide for Felix, and should he have concrete evidence on this matter, he’d be able to do as such.

Intuition is simply not enough proof. He _believes_ Felix has either been kidnapped or murdered, but the only thing telling him this is his own understanding of a childhood friend. He’s not sending knights out on a definitive mission where they are targeting specific criminals. They simply humour him in his suspicions; and for that reason, there is a limit.

Sylvain is aware that the numbers that he can send on these searches, and even him doing this himself, will shorten and shorten until they soon give up. It’s a harsh reality he has to face.

He wishes, still, that he tried harder to get him to stay, or at least said a proper goodbye when they last parted. It could all be a misunderstanding; perhaps Felix has been alive and well. With no more tales, however, of the swordsman swinging his blade with an air of elegance, magic from his spare hand illuminating the night, he highly doubts this is the case.

“Even if you can no longer send out factions to search for him,” says Ashe, “I will continue doing so myself, whenever I can. He’s—no matter how I first felt when I did not understand either of your intentions, he means a lot to me. Truly. And I could never live with myself for not trying to save him.”

“Thank you, Ashe,” says Sylvain, able to somehow smile, even if painfully, regardless of how deeply his heart aches. “And I feel the same. I can’t give up on saving him, not just yet. Not when he never gave up on me.”

Ashe remains silent, although the smile he now has in return says more than any words could.

The two begin to trek through the forest alone. Neither can be sure on what to search for. At this point, they seem to be navigating their way through places they have already scrutinised, hoping for a clue, _anything,_ on where Felix could be.

“What is this?” asks Ashe, pointing to a tree to their side. Sylvain’s gaze follows; his eyes land on a mark carved into the bark. Immediately widening.

“How did we never …? That’s the symbol for an ex-soldier group. They leave that whenever they’ve killed someone, or anything similar, from the empire.”

“By the empire, do you mean from before the war?”

Sylvain nods. “So it’s odd, right? That they’d harm someone here? Unless—” Sylvain’s fingers brush over the bark. “Unless it was someone like Felix, who’s always travelling around.”

“You reckon they could be the culprits?” asks Ashe.

“Most definitely. And if so,” Sylvain swallows, trying to keep his voice steady, “I highly doubt he is alive.”

“I will not lie and say that his death isn’t a likely answer to what has happened. But let’s breathe and remain calm. I’ve received word recently that a group matching the description you’ve given me have been spotted nearby; the knights are hunting them down. We can look into it, if you like.”

“Please do,” says Sylvain, filled with utmost relief over the possibility of finally having some kind of lead, even if it isn’t concrete. “And thank you, Ashe, for all you have done.”

Ashe smiles. “It’s the least I can do for two of my old friends. If we do find anything, you’re free to allow us to infiltrate wherever it is they are hiding. I understand if you do not want to do so because of … because of what you might find.”

Images flicker through Sylvain’s mind, of his old best friend with a face of deathly white and blood seeping from his body, eyes open and lifeless. He shakes his head physically to rid himself of that which is mental. It matters not what _he_ will possibly see; only that he is doing all he can to ensure that Felix is safe.

“If this will hold answers for us after all,” says Sylvain, “I have to be there myself.”

He’ll always be there with Felix, until the very end. That is their promise. He can only hope, however, that this promise has not been broken on Felix’s side.

* * *

Pounding hearts and held breaths, hands that hold tightly onto weapons as they prepare themselves for an ambush. There’s a sense of relief in action finally being taken. Perhaps even what can be called a ray of hope in twisted darkness, despite how the situation is far from a positive one in general.

For after weeks of searching in secret, able to use more resources now it has been proven that a crime has been committed, their lead has brought them here. To a rundown abandoned house to the north of House Gautier. Chilling temperatures the closer they reach to the mountain, trickling snow from how winter has arrived. Sylvain finds these freezing temperatures help him to feel alive.

Ashe’s hands, surprisingly steady despite these harsh winter temperatures, are currently unlocking the back door. It takes little time at all to do so. It appears as though the bandits using this place as their hideout haven’t reinforced this system; it’s worn from the years of being left as it is.

Sylvain and his knights ease their way inside. As quiet as possible. Sylvain and Ashe’s eyes meet; a slow nod from the former causes Ashe to draw an arrow. The pair are ahead of the rest, edging around a corner.

There’s several figures sat on the ground. Smoking, bottles of alcohol, a set of cards in front of them; to the side are three more, murmured conversation.

Sylvain signals to Ashe. _The one on the right,_ he says, for that specific man is best in view. Ashe agrees. He pulls back the arrow, sending a silent shot into the man’s head.

“ _Shit!”_ shouts the man directly to his side. The others around immediately react as well. The man who bellowed is pulled back by another. He’s the leader, and the one who will face the end of Sylvain’s lance.

Everything is a blur. How more of these bandits approach from behind, yet are taken down by the knights. Sylvain sprinting into the room and ducking out of the way of a knife expertly thrown at him. He sees not their face nor hears their voice when his lance plunges through them; he only sees the man who’s trying to escape through the window.

Ashe’s arrow takes down the man next to him. Sylvain rushes forward, grasping the escaping leader by the back of his collar and throwing him into a wall. The man is stunned by the collision at the back of his head; it grants Sylvain plenty of time to crouch in front of him and hold his blade at the man’s neck.

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius,” he says. “What does that name mean to you?”

“Oh, so you’re the Margrave. Too bad we couldn’t give you what you deserve as well.”

This leader’s men have already been taken down in a flash; Sylvain spots the survivors being restrained out of the corner of his eye. Sylvain had no hesitation in bringing some of the most skilled soldiers he knows. His lance is brought closer to the man’s neck, who swallows and lifts his head.

“Where is he?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sylvain drags his blade across the man’s throat. Only enough to make him bleed, to hiss from the pain, as a warning for how he can do far more. “I would, actually. That is why I’m asking.”

“You’re too late, you know. Deed’s already done. Oh man, you should’ve heard it.” Sylvain resists the urge to take him down right here and now when the man snickers. “It took so long to break him. _So_ fucking long. But when he finally did … You’ve missed out, Margrave Gautier.”

The hands gripping Sylvain’s lance begin to tremble, yet his grip remains firm. “What did you do?”

“Only what that bastard deserves. Don’t you think, after all he did, we deserved to hear those screams?”

“Sylvain. Don’t listen.” Ashe’s hand lands on Sylvain’s shoulder. “We can question the survivors.”

Sylvain nods slowly, yet even with this agreement, his mind has already been swept away by the horrid imagination of what exactly those screams sounded like, all that they must have done to Felix in order to force them out of him.

And for what reason? Was killing not enough for them?

“Is he alive?” questions Sylvain.

“Not for long,” says the man. Sylvain’s breath is shallow. He has to demand them for more, he _does,_ because Felix’s life is on the line; but he knows that little can be done here. They’ll waste time in trying to force out answers. This type of person will remain silent no matter how badly you threaten them. Sylvain can only hope that the pressure and tension of being in custody will help bring the truth out of them instead.

The leader is pulled from the wall, Sylvain far from gentle when forcing him into the floor. He takes the rope handed to him. “Search the surrounding areas,” Sylvain orders to the soldiers whilst binding the man’s wrists behind his back. “He might still be nearby.”

“Sir!”

“What will _you_ do, Sylvain?” asks Ashe. “And what would you like me to do as well?”

“I’d like you to lead that search nearby,” says Sylvain. “As for me, I’ll search on the way home, but I need to bring them into custody. We can get more answers out of them there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I can’t describe it, but something is telling me to go back there.”

“Your intuition is rarely wrong,” says Ashe, “so do follow through. And be careful, Sylvain. As much as I wish for us to find Felix, I do not want you to throw your own life away in the process.”

“I won’t. And you too, Ashe. Please stay safe.”

Ashe smiles, nodding, before he’s getting to his feet and finding knights to gather.

“It’s all worthless, you know,” says the leader pinned to the floor.

“What’s worthless is everything you’ve done.” Sylvain drags the man to his feet, eyes scanning the area. “Come on, let’s get going! We’ll take the carriages and search best we can, taking turns to sleep on the way home.”

 _Wait for me,_ are the words Sylvain thinks to himself as they step outside, hot breath visible in the cold air when he exhales. All Felix has done is run away from others, scared to let them in—Sylvain prays this will be the first time Felix does the opposite.

* * *

The journey back to House Gautier feels as though it lasts for weeks on end. It’s slowed as it is for ensuring to scrutinise areas they pass through. This fear for Felix’s safety, however, only drags out time more—each hour is spent wondering how deeply Felix has been suffering.

He’s tried to question their captives further. They do not say anything more than their vague remarks, and Sylvain knows killing them will do little at this point; he can only hope they find Felix on their journey, or at the very least these criminals feel more inclined to confess on what they have committed when the threat of severe punishment hangs over their heads.

It’s simply terrifying to question if it’ll be enough, if Felix will already be dead by then.

He’s trying to focus on this when he lies awake at night in the carriage; that Felix _is_ supposedly alive. Sylvain has no reason to trust these bandits. He simply understands their minds and mockery all too well. The fact that Felix is suffering, has been harmed more than Sylvain can imagine, is something they gloat in. If he died, they would surely do the same with that as well.

Sylvain wishes for life more than he has ever done so; never has his heart ached so terribly over the thought of loss.

They soon arrive in Sylvain’s territory. His heart beats in anticipation. They’ve all fought for a brighter tomorrow, wanting to free people from pain—yet to himself, he questions silently if torture will be necessary to get an answer. He hates taking these measures. But with that smirk on the man’s face, even when he knows he’s lost, Sylvain is uncertain if there will be any other choice.

The manor comes into view. Something is nagging at him. A sense of relief, perhaps, although that seems inaccurate to say—all he knows is his heart is beating faster.

“Sir Gautier!” says a knight, rushing to the carriage. “A man, from the forest—”

Sylvain doesn’t remain to listen to anything else. He pushes the door open with his elbow, sprinting up the road towards his manor, as fast as he is able when wearing armour. Figures come into view. His soldiers, seeming to reach out to a man using a sword, old and rusted, to support himself standing; this man backs away from their touch.

His dark hair is loose and tangled, clothes torn and stained with dried blood. It’s as though every inch of pale skin visible from those rips is bruised.

Felix faces Sylvain when approached. Eyes more lifeless than Sylvain has ever seen them, face stark white, sunken and bearing chapped lips and eyes surrounded by black circles.

Sylvain is frozen. Frozen, up until that painful name, far too weak for the proud swordsman Sylvain once knew.

“Syl … vain …”

And that shaking sword is no longer enough to keep him upright; not when Felix’s eyes close, his body grows limp, and he falls forward, straight into Sylvain’s arms instinctively there to catch him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his mind and body alike affected by his capture, Felix stays within Sylvain's manor in order to recover. The more time passes, the more he realises he isn't sure if he can let it all go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This second part came out a few thousand words longer than expected--sorry it's so long, but I hope you enjoy!

Back and to, back and to. Sylvain is constantly pacing. His hands itch to do _something._ Be it pick up a pencil and sketch, hold a book, wield a lance—anything seems more favourable than this. His mind is simply too scattered for him to focus on anything else.

He’s thankful that Felix is alive. Sylvain has been on edge ever since confronting the bandits, their words driving fear deep inside him. All he could imagine was someone finding Felix’s body, bloody and bruised, out in the wilderness, more alone than he has ever been. For Felix to be alive is a miracle.

It’s simply hard to see it as such. He barely has any ounce of life left. Sylvain is unable to feel joy over rescuing him, for his survival is not guaranteed. Medics are attending to him as Sylvain paces this way. Is there any hope for a man who has lost so much blood, black and blue from head to toe?

He had been light, too. Much lighter than expected. When Sylvain carried the fallen swordsman up to the Gautier household, his eyes had glanced down at the face with prominent cheekbones, and Sylvain has been left wondering how little he has eaten as of late.

It’s horribly selfish to feel this way when Sylvain cannot imagine the extent of Felix’s suffering, but it’s frightening. It’s truly, truly frightening. Felix being weak, vulnerable, is so uncharacteristic for him that this alone sends a chill to Sylvain’s bones. But of course, most of Sylvain’s fear lies in how Felix became this way. What has he succumbed to in order to be on death’s door?

When the door to Felix’s room finally opens, Sylvain is startled, filled with a greater spike of fear. “Is he—”

“He’s not dead,” says the voice of Linhardt. Now a brilliant doctor, with long green hair pulled into a bun. Even for him, he appears exhausted, as do the other medics who pass, murmuring over notes. “But he’s incredibly weak. It’ll be on his strength now to pull through the worst of it.”

“How long will that worst last for?”

“The next few nights will be especially vital. I imagine he will not wake during that time.” Linhardt pushes up the glasses resting on his nose. “Broken ribs, a fractured ankle, cuts, bruises, burns … There’s injuries everywhere. Likely torture.”

“Torture,” Sylvain echoes weakly. It’s been clear that Felix has endured this when considering the bandits’ words—to actually have this confirmed, however … Sylvain swallows and nods for Linhardt to continue, trying to stay composed.

“It appears as though he has also been penetrated by a blade a number of times, although the wounds are strangely healed—combined with his blood loss, it’s safe to assume they might have sped up healing with magic so they could attack him without accidentally killing him.” Linhardt is pale when saying this. Death, blood, violence—it all haunts him terribly. As is the case for many medical professionals, Linhardt has to push aside this trauma in order to use his healing hands in any way he can. “I imagine that is the cause for a lot of his weakness. He also has pneumonia, which is bound to be a contributor.”

“Oh, Goddess,” says Sylvain. “That’s the last thing he needs.”

“It could be deadly. We’re doing all we can.” Linhardt is silent for a moment. He walks forward, placing a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. “I promise that. Felix is not a weak person, either. If I’m honest, he’s always been _exhausting_ with how he trains so vigorously. I’m sure he’ll fight through.”

Somehow, these words touch Sylvain more than they would coming from anyone else. Honesty is a virtue with Linhardt. If he says he believes Felix can survive, Sylvain has no qualms against that being the truth.

“Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate all you’re doing. May I see him?”

“Certainly.”

Sylvain nods gratefully. He enters the room with caution, as though his footsteps would be enough to wake Felix. He’s almost hesitant in casting his eyes to the bed, although he forces himself not to be. He cannot shield himself from this. Felix deserves that much.

Tension eases from Sylvain’s chest. Felix’s appearance is easier to observe than three hours ago, when he had fallen against Sylvain. The blood has been washed away. Hair smoothed out, untangled. Bedsheets are pulled up to his chin and conceal most of the injuries he bears.

The harsh reality of Felix’s state is clearer when Sylvain heads closer. A face scarily white, even with the inherited pale, Fraldarius skin. He almost appears dead with the contrast to his darkened under-eyes. Bruises on his face, a busted lip. No injuries Felix is unaccustomed to. He’s simply not usually on the brink of death with them, visibly in agony even within sleep.

“What did they do to you?” Sylvain murmurs. “How did you escape?”

They are questions he must know the answers to. For now, Sylvain settles in a chair by Felix’s bedside. Memories of Sylvain being the one to lie in Garreg Mach Monastery’s infirmary return to mind. Felix would burst in, furious at Sylvain’s recklessness.

There had been chuckles over the situation, all from Sylvain. Reassurances as Sylvain tells Felix he won’t throw away his life carelessly. Sylvain found worth in himself through those visits. He never slept better than the time Felix accidentally fell asleep himself, with his arms, shoulders and head resting on Sylvain’s chest.

Sylvain reaches forward. He wishes he could take one of Felix’s hands, yet both his arms are burrowed beneath the duvet. Revealing any part of him doesn’t seem sensible when he’s battling pneumonia. And so, Sylvain settles for, with the delicacy of a butterfly with a broken wing, brushing a few strands of hair away from Felix’s face.

He’s not sure if he believes in the Goddess anymore. Still, it is to her he prays silently, wishing for nothing more in this moment than for Felix to survive.

* * *

The next several days drag by endlessly. Sylvain’s grateful his daughter is visiting her mothers—she doesn’t have to bear witness to such violence, nor see how much her father is trying to keep himself together.

He’s kept busy by his duties. At the moment, those he trusts are left with the task of questioning the bandits. He will face them himself when ready. For now, he has to wait for Felix to wake.

There’s speculations on what has happened, even without the answers from the bandits. There are blisters and worn skin on Felix’s feet, as well as snow and dirt all over his clothes, suggesting he has somehow managed to trek from where he had been held captive. All the way back to Sylvain. It’s wrong of Sylvain to feel touched in this moment, but he does. There must be at least some trust Felix has if he pushed himself to make it here.

Sylvain once again sits by Felix’s bedside. Whilst it’s worrying he has not yet woken four days later, it at least means Felix isn’t dead. Healers have been attending to him everyday with Faith magic. It has been helping with his injuries for certain, although it can only do so much before Felix’s body does the rest—it also appears the bandits managed to use magic themselves to make Felix’s injuries more difficult to heal.

Another night passes. This one is reported as the best so far. Felix’s breathing becoming a little more relaxed during his sleep, his vitals far from perfect, but more stable. It’s potentially too early to celebrate. Sylvain tries to not do so to himself.

This changes when the afternoon arrives and he hears a quiet grunt. His eyes shoot up from the book in his lap, placing it to the side and leaning closer to Felix. There’s no doubt about it—he’s stirring.

Sylvain should likely call a doctor, although is too caught up by sheer relief to do anything but watch as Felix’s eyes, at last, flicker open.

“What …?”

“It’s okay,” says Sylvain, gently. “You’re in the Gautier house.”

Felix blinks, visibly dazed when averting his gaze to Sylvain. “I … I made it?”

“Do you not remember?”

There’s silence, Felix attempting to focus. “I think I do,” he says. “How long has it been?”

“Five days. You—you were in real bad shape. But hey, you’re awake now.” Without thinking, Sylvain tries to lean in, wanting to test Felix’s temperature; the latter sits up much too quickly to avoid that hand. A cry of pain escapes his lips as he wraps his arms around his waist. “Shit—sorry, Felix, I didn’t think. Are you okay?”

“I—” He bursts into a violent fit of coughing. Before Sylvain can move, speak, there’s footsteps rushing inside; three healers, including Linhardt. “Don’t,” Felix rasps out, weakly batting away hands reaching towards him, “don’t touch me!”

“It’s okay, Felix,” says Sylvain, trying to keep his voice quiet despite the pounding of his heart. “You’re in my home, remember? They’re doctors, they won’t hurt you.”

It takes Felix a moment to process this through his exhausted state. His wild yet worn eyes flicker between them, clearly trying to calm himself down from a fight or flight response. He eventually exhales. A slow nod, allowing them to step closer. Magic is cast, medicine is given, and Felix’s coughing has stopped by the time they back away.

“We must know what happened,” says Linhardt. Felix shakes his head. “We cannot treat you any other way.” The mere shrug is worrying—almost as though Felix doesn’t care whether he’s helped or not. Linhardt meets Sylvain’s gaze, who nods in response.

“Felix, will you talk to me? If we’re alone?”

Felix brings his eyes to Sylvain. They almost seem … lost. Confused. As though he’s still processing how he is even here, in safe hands.

“All right,” he says eventually. Sylvain breaks out into a smile. The others take their leave, room silent now it is only the childhood pair.

“I know it’s difficult,” says Sylvain. “But we can’t help you unless we know. And—and I’ll admit it. I want to know where you’ve been this whole time.”

Felix is staring. Trying to figure out if Sylvain is still a friend and not an enemy, it seems. That gaze soon drops down to the bedsheets over Felix’s legs.

“I stayed in the area after the job you gave me,” Felix begins eventually. “I—sounds stupid, but I got caught up in nostalgia. I didn’t want to leave yet.”

His voice may be weak, strained, as though every single word he speaks is difficult to let out, although these words bring a sense of joy in Sylvain. As selfish as such an emotion is right now.

“Turned out to be a mistake. I ended up having a run-in with those ex-kingdom soldiers before long. They have a grudge against us, me in particular. I tried to fight. It wasn’t enough. And they captured me, stole everything I had.”

“Including the sword I gave you,” said Sylvain. “Which they sent to me.”

“Exactly that. It was meant to be some kind of message, I think. Telling you I was dead—or was going to be, soon.”

Sylvain’s voice is quieter when he speaks next. “Then—then they …”

Weak hands grip at the bedsheets over Felix. His eyes are cast away, closed with an exhale of breath. “Hurt me to no end. Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m strong. No worries.”

Even so, there’s no denying how his hands begin to tremble. He flinches when Sylvain reaches to him, slowly. But he doesn’t move. He’s wary when Sylvain takes his hand, although makes no attempt to pull it away, either.

“You don’t have to say any details until you’re ready,” says Sylvain. “But how long was it for?”

“A little over a month. Then I escaped.”

“You … escaped? After a whole month of that?” His eyes cannot help but glance at Felix’s injuries, wondering how one could even manage finding that strength when they’ve been put under so much torment. “How did you do it?”

“I … I don’t really remember. It’s a blur. I just remember taking an old sword in the process and how cold it was outside.”

Sylvain thinks of the battered, rusted sword Felix had used to keep himself upright. “And you trekked all the way here?”

“Mm. Took weeks with my injuries.”

It’s no wonder his immunity has been low enough to catch pneumonia. In fact, Sylvain is amazed that Felix hasn’t died from the cold. All he’s had to cover himself are these battered clothes.

“I had nowhere else to go,” Felix continues before Sylvain can speak again. “I didn’t—I didn’t know where else to find help.”

“You came to the right place. You’re safe here.” Sylvain gives Felix’s hand as much of a squeeze as he can without worrying about hurting him. “I’m sorry you’ve been through all this. Truly.”

“You have to bear it in mind when you’re a mercenary,” says Felix. Sylvain couldn’t disagree more. Mercenaries can be selfish at times, caring for the money they earn through their work and little else. But never, _ever_ _,_ do they deserve this kind of treatment. Especially not someone like Felix, whose eyes had been ridden with nothing but pain, pity, when the two of them rescued those children together.

Now those eyes are frightened. As much as it appears Felix is trying to keep himself composed, his gaze is flitting around the room, as though he’s expecting someone to emerge. The appearance reminds Sylvain of a prey backed into a corner.

“I think,” says Felix, and his voice has an undeniable shake to it, too exhausted to mask his emotions, “I need to be alone.”

“Are you sure?” Felix nods slowly. “All right. Get some rest, okay? I’ll bring you some food after. We’ll give you a little at a time, work you up. I can’t imagine you’ve eaten much for some time.” This time, Felix shakes his head. “Then relax until then. Can I help you lie down?”

“I can do it myself.” Although the moment Felix is propping himself up on his elbow, he’s biting his lip to stifle a noise of pain. “Can’t even get in bed, apparently.”

“Which is more than understandable. Here—I’m going to touch you again now, okay?”

Felix nods. He still tenses when Sylvain’s hands hold onto his upper arms, although with the warning, doesn’t flinch this time. He’s brought down onto his side, and immediately, his head is facing away from Sylvain, hands holding onto the bedsheets. It must be humiliating for him to need the help.

Yet all Sylvain can see is strength, still stunned by how he is alive at all.

* * *

Felix falls asleep again. It’s only for a brief period, however, before nightmares apparently stir him; Sylvain had been away at the time, soon told by the medics of Felix’s abrupt awakening. He had to be calmed quickly before any thrashing of his body hurt him further.

He’s not speaking to them. Not properly, anyway. The most he will do is give a yes or no answer. Alike to how Felix saw this home as his only safe haven to turn to, it appears as though he’s only viewing Sylvain as someone he can trust. Even now, after all these years since the two were together everyday. Sylvain isn’t sure on what he has done to earn such deep trust separating him from everyone else, but he’s thankful for it.

Later this day, he’s entering the room with a steaming bowl of soup. “I know you’ve probably not got much appetite,” he says, “but you need to eat something.”

“Hurray for me.”

Sylvain can manage a slight smile. At least there’s still personality left in Felix, as weak and emotionless his voice is. Sylvain is careful when sitting on the bed by him. He places the bowl to one side, helping to prop Felix up with pillows behind him instead.

“Sorry,” he says when Felix winces.

“If you say sorry every time I do that, you’re going to lose your voice.” Felix eyes close, head leaning back. His face has paled a little further from the pain.

“I think it’s best if I feed you.” He doubts Felix should even be moving his arms much. A single eye opens, Felix scoffing.

“I’m not a child.”

“Didn’t say you are. I simply think we have to be careful.” Sylvain picks up the bowl again, filling a spoon with the soup. “I know it’s humiliating for you. I do. But I swear there’s no reason for it to be.”

Felix glances down at the soup. “Couldn’t have even got me a favourite.”

“We will, soon. They just want to ease you back into solids.”

Eyes flickering between that soup and Sylvain, conflict inside. He’s soon sighing whilst leaning back properly. Giving in, it appears. He doesn’t say anything else when Sylvain brings the spoon closer to him.

The first mouthful is fine. Second as well. It’s the third that causes him to cough, Sylvain reaching for his back. “Easy,” says Sylvain, rubbing in circles.

“My chest burns,” Felix manages to gasp out. “And it’s not the goddamn ribs. Just had to—” He coughs again, this time into a tissue. “H-had to get this as well.”

Sylvain’s own chest tightens with sympathy. The back of his hand presses to Felix’s forehead. “You’re burning up a lot. No need to eat _all_ of this, okay? Just please try to do so more. We need to build your strength up.”

“Feels as though I have anything but strength.” Even so, Felix accepts, the two slowly easing their way through the food. It’s heart-breaking. To see Felix struggle to so much as swallow, limp, weak hands unable to take that spoon themselves.

It’s not Sylvain’s place, however, to allow himself to be affected—he’s currently the only person Felix will allow to do this, and so has to take that seriously. Sylvain is a key part in his survival. After all their time in the war, the times they have protected one another, such a duty is a given by now.

“That’s more than I expected from you,” says Sylvain when Felix has eaten two-thirds of the soup before his nausea deems the rest impossible. He’s a little green. “Do you think you might be sick?”

“Not yet,” says Felix, breathing out deeply. “I was sick enough in that damn place. Not throwing up again now.”

Sylvain can only imagine. “Has the food helped at all?” he asks when placing the bowl down. Felix hums.

“Perhaps. It was nice to consume something warm. And it helped some of the hunger, I think.”

“I’m glad. Maybe before long, you’d be able to have it with bread.”

“That’d be nice.” Felix’s eyes closed. “Chicken too, at some point. I’ve missed actual food.”

Sylvain doesn’t question this further; Felix has spoken enough about what has happened to him today, without Sylvain digging into the topic of starvation as well. Instead, Sylvain says, “Soon, you’ll be able to have it. For now, do you want to lay back down?”

“Yeah. I’m beat.”

He’s not reluctant this time in Sylvain assisting him. The fatigue is catching up too much—the act of eating, even if through Sylvain’s help, has wiped him. It once again causes Sylvain to admire through disbelief how Felix even managed to persevere enough to make it all the way here.

“I’ll leave you be again, if you need that.”

Felix is hesitant to nod, which in turn makes Sylvain wonder if he should truly exit the room. There’s no words spoken to him when walking away with the bowl in hand, however, and so he pushes on and heads outside.

His gaze lands on Ashe walking towards him. “I’m glad to see he is eating,” says Ashe. “How is he?”

“He’s …” There’s no possible words to describe him, not in full. “He’s alive, at least.”

“The culprits have had no choice but to say the truth, now they know Felix is alive,” says Ashe. “They’re as shocked as anyone that he’s survived. But I also think a lot of it is gloating.”

“That’s far from a surprise.” Sylvain’s voice is low, furious by how true this is; anyone who would have the lack of humanity to inflict so much suffering on someone would have no qualms against relishing in it as well. “Anything of use?

“Actually, yes. They told us that there’s more from their group out there. They do not know where, however—and that appears to be the truth. I guess some escaped in the ambush.”

“That’s still great to know, thank you.” Sylvain glances back to Felix’s room, lips pressed together. “We have to be careful in Felix leaving here, then. I wouldn’t want him to until he’s fully healed at least, but even after …”

Ashe nods in agreement, brow creased. “I worry too, that they might capture him again. We will have to think of a way to keep him safe.”

Sylvain hums. He straightens up, refusing to allow himself to feel lost. “I’ll send out knights to search for them. We’ll do what we can to apprehend them during Felix’s recovery.”

He knows he can trust Ashe’s agreement. They’re together on this, even after all that has happened. No matter the struggles they face, they will do what they can for Felix, always. No one deserves what happened to him.

* * *

No images are clear. There’s nothing but blurs around him, the flash of evil, mocking eyes and little more able to be comprehended. It’s his other senses that are on fire. The scent of blood and vomit, the hissed words thrown at him and his own agonised cries.

He can also feel it; pain coursing through his entire being, seeming to scratch at him from inside as well. It tears him open. Creeps through every cell, vein, muscle, bone. Every single inch of him enveloped in agony.

No … no, it was back then. It isn’t happening now. The pain is not strong enough for him to know he’s reliving it all over. It’s his emotions he experiences the most. All the consuming terror, his fury at himself for allowing them to do as they please, hurt him until he breaks.

It took a while. Felix persevered for as long as he was able. His pride, after all, is both made of an iron will yet also fragile enough for him to be terrified of its destroyal. But even he could never hang on for ever.

He’s not fully sure what caused him to scream. As he’s captured by these images in his sleeping mind, he cannot say what specifically made him break among the agony. He’s blocked it out. He must have, for all he can actually remember is the aching of his throat and the piercing screams in his ears, those sobs and pleads to stop.

He, Felix Hugo Fraldarius, begging for mercy. The entire concept is a joke. As though he has not already disappointed his family enough as it is. Hurt and tarnished them by his own blade, and now, has reduced himself to this.

“ _Felix.”_ This stands out among the other words he hears; he was never called that during this time, only one degrading name after another. _“Felix!”_

He stirs somewhat more peacefully than expected. Perhaps he’s too paralysed by the fear gripping his chest. Covered in a cold sweat, he blinks, and curses the tears trickling down his face because of it. What a joke.

“A dream,” he says quietly, not properly focusing on the person leaning over him; he only catches that unmistakeable red hair. “Just a dream.”

Even so, he’s now coughing again. It’s clearing up almost two weeks later. The only way it would return full force this way is if he had been screaming in his sleep again.

Figures. As though he has not already seemed weak enough in this time.

“You’re all right,” murmurs Sylvain. Felix is too exhausted to be angered over that soothing voice, as though he is a child to be taken care of. “How are you feeling?”

“Lousy. But I’m getting there.” Truly, the Faith magic has been wondrous. They tell him these injuries will be long-lasting, however the worst of it has long since been gone.

“Good. I brought you breakfast.”

So he has. Recovering from traumatic nightmares made Felix completely miss the plate of bacon and eggs on the night-stand. Solids have been wonderful, especially meat. He’s still not able to eat as much as he should, still underweight, although he has been able to work himself up little by little.

That’s nice, when his captors had taken pleasure in feeding him scraps like a dog. “You’re not eating yourself?” asks Felix, noticing the lack of food on Sylvain’s end.

“I will be soon. It’s still early, and I’ve been eating food with my daughter now she’s back home.”

“Of course, you have a daughter.” Such a thing is still hard to grasp. Sylvain might have seemed to have sex with every girl possible in Garreg Mach, although he was constantly cautious about doing so; ending up with a baby was the last thing he had ever wanted. “Her mother is Dorothea, right?”

Sylvain nods. “Yeah. We were married.”

“I think I heard about that. Little bits of gossip when travelling around, you know.” Felix pauses, cutting into his food, now on a tray on his lap. It’s still difficult for him to do so, although by this point, Sylvain and the medical team alike know that Felix building up strength and independence is important. Thank the Goddess. “Why did you separate?”

“We had to grow on our own, I think,” says Sylvain. “I did have feelings for her, I’d say. But after a while, the romance from that faded. Probably because I could tell she couldn’t be herself around me. She needed to explore herself.”

“Did she find someone?” Felix already knows Sylvain is no longer taken—he’s mentioned his daughter, but no partner.

“Yes, Petra. They’re incredibly happy together. Means that Eli has three dear parents.” Sylvain smiles, and the sight is so … comforting. There’s something different about that smile these days. As though it comes from the heart every time, rather than so many of his fake smiles when he was younger. “You’ll have to meet her soon.”

“Yeah.” Sylvain has already offered, although Felix has said to wait. He’s not fully sure why. Perhaps he would rather not introduce himself to Sylvain’s daughter when he is in such a sorry state.

He knows the truth as well—how traumatised he is around others, and how much his emotions are building up inside him. It’s simply far easier to push it away than address it.

Soon, Felix finishes eating what he can of his food. It’s reached the point where he _wants_ to eat more, yet simply can’t because of how he vomits if doing so too much. That’s probably a good sign. His stomach may stop being such a complex asshole eventually, and allow itself to be satisfied without throwing it back up.

“Thank you,” says Felix. The words sound heavier than planned. Probably because he’s thanking Sylvain for far more than simple bacon and eggs; even if he struggles to voice this properly, he couldn’t be more grateful for all he’s been given.

And Sylvain seems to understand this perfectly. A gentle smile and hand on the bed, almost as though it wants to reach towards Felix.

“It’s never been a problem,” he says. “Never.”

Felix swallows, eyes shifting away. It’s all flooding back again. The emotions Felix has towards that man have never left him, he’s realising. Not completely. If they hadn’t, he would not have had that spark of excitement, however slight, when receiving his job for Sylvain. More importantly, he’d have not felt the courage to turn up on his doorstep, battered and bruised, able to trust Sylvain to take him in.

He really did have nowhere else to turn. Any friends remaining after the war had long since gone. It’s Sylvain, and Sylvain alone, who Felix could have never pushed away entirely. Perhaps he’s the reason why Felix forced himself to survive.

“If there’s anything else I can do, or listen to, tell me,” Sylvain soon adds. “I’m here for you, and not just as someone to put a roof over your head.”

Felix stays silent. He’s not sure if he wants to describe what has happened to him in detail. Will it help, to give a detailed explanation of his suffering? To voice his hopelessness and how ashamed he is by the begs for it all to stop? Or would it only make him focus more on what he has had to endure?

There’s one thing he knows for sure, however; simply having Sylvain’s company by his side helps him to see light each day. It’s not a cure. This isn’t a fairytale where it only takes a single smile to be cured of all sadness.

If a kiss in particular could cause everything to be happy again, then it would have prevented any of this from happening. Still … Felix’s catches himself glancing at Sylvain’s lips, swallowing and looking away, unsure if he is warmed or haunted by images of the past.

“Thank you,” he says. “But I think I need to be alone for now.”

He always does, in the end. Emotions are always much too much to bear. Positive emotions, that is. He’s become accustomed to emotional torment. It’s something powering through that and reminding him of how he _is_ sensitive, deep down, feeling everything too much, that frightens him most of all.

Sylvain understands. “Always here,” he says. He gently squeezes at Felix’s leg through the duvet before getting to his feet.

Felix cannot watch him, because he’s greeted by that warm, fluttery feeling in his stomach that never quite left, and it terrifies him only a little less than remembering his imprisonment.

* * *

Little by little, Felix’s strength returns to him. The medics and Sylvain alike have been helping him walk around. It’s pathetic. Three weeks later, he’s still struggling to walk. In his mind, he cannot quite understand how a month’s worth of torment on his body cannot receive the same amount of time back in order to recover from it—or at least, he’s too hard on himself to want to accept this fact.

Moving around more often has him thinking about the future. It’s obvious on paper. He recovers and leaves the manor, off out again as a mercenary. In reality, it’s much less simple. He wonders if it’s the trauma holding him back from imagining himself back out there. Perhaps it’s something else, or a combination of many reasons.

There’s a huge part of him, however, that is scared to stay, terrified by these notions that cause him to hesitate. He wants to remain whilst simultaneously fearing doing so. It’s a huge conflict.

“I don’t want you leaving until you have recovered completely,” says Sylvain. “Or at least, until you’re almost back to normal. It’s too risky for you to do otherwise.”

Felix hums, staring out of the window he has sat by; he’s breathless from being on his feet, although when returning to his room, has insisted on spending a moment sitting on something other than a bed. Perhaps it makes him feel less reliant on it, despite how in reality, he still has to spend so much time beneath the covers.

“What if it takes months?”

“Then you stay for months.”

Felix scoffs. “As if I can sit around for that long.”

“Felix. I mean it. I’m not letting you step foot out of my home until you can do so without hurting yourself.”

Their eyes meet. “What if you had to kidnap me?” he asks, mostly as a joke.

Sylvain, on the other hand, is serious. “Then I’d kidnap you. Really, Felix, it’s too risky. I also—we haven’t found any of the others in that group yet. I’m scared to let you go out there in general, never mind with injuries.”

Leaning his cheek in his hand, Felix brings his eyes away again. “I hate you acting like I’m weak.”

“I’m not saying you yourself are weak. There’s a difference between that and being weakened by injuries.” When there’s no answer, Sylvain takes his time to put his hand on his knee; anything can make Felix flinch, from how much his body now expects pain from other people’s movement. Sylvain does all he can to keep Felix comfortable. It’s nice, in a sense, even if Felix feels all the more ashamed of himself. “I simply care for you. I don’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way again.”

“Such is the life of a mercenary.”

“Being tortured isn’t part of the job description.” Sylvain squeezes gently. “I … I have to admit, Felix, that your nonchalant response to this worries me. It’s as though you’ve accepted it.”

As though Felix doesn’t know there’s something wrong with being this way. Felix’s eyes fix to the side, not seeing anything. Nothing but his blood. Nothing but those twisted smiles that relish in his torment.

“Because it’s the only thing keeping me together,” says Felix. Quietly, much too quietly. “I need to accept it and move on. That’s how you heal, right?”

“Moving on, yes. But suppressing your emotions won’t do anything to help.”

“As if _you’re_ in any place to give me therapy!” The spit at Sylvain is harsher than intended, a part of his mind screaming at him to not lash out now, not after all he’s been given, although it’s already spewing out before he can stop himself. “Who used to spend all his time loitering around with women to ignore all his problems? Slacked off from responsibilities to distract yourself?”

It’s frustrating how calm Sylvain remains. “I know. That’s why I understand you.”

“You _don’t_ understand. No one will. This is never going to leave me, and no amount of—” Felix stops himself early, knowing he has already spoken far too much. His teeth find his bottom lip, head turning away. “Leave me be.”

“Are you su—”

“ _Yes._ ”

“There’s no need to snap at me. I’m only trying to help.” Felix’s eyes close when he hears Sylvain get to his feet. “I’m never going to stop being here for you. Ever. I wanted to protect you when you were just a baby, and never once has that stopped.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“We all do, from time to time. Please, call for me if you need me.”

Felix doesn’t answer. He does not move a single inch until the door has closed after Sylvain. He leans forward in his chair, wincing at the pain in his torso, hands reaching for his head. Why, why are these images still not leaving? He could accept them before, understanding why he’d be this affected by what has happened, but it’s already been a month. A _month._ He shouldn’t still be dwelling on any of it. There’s no reason for it to bother him now.

It’s weakness, it’s vulnerability—for his fingers to now be tightening in his hair, willing the sting in his scalp to take him away from the thoughts beneath it. His screams, his sobs, words cutting as deep as the knives carving into his skin.

He dealt with war, saw death constantly, so why does this still haunt him? Why is he this _pathetic?_

A tear or two are allowed before the back of his hand wipes at his eyes. He wills himself in this moment to force himself back into normalcy. To return to that life outside, wandering constantly with no one but himself.

Although when he digs deep inside himself, he finds his heart longing for the time before then, all those years ago when he had companions by his side.

* * *

The little girl is the perfect combination of her mother and father. Brunette hair matching Dorothea’s, honey-brown eyes the same as Sylvain’s. Felix can see why Sylvain has compared her to ‘a cute chocolate button.’ As much as Felix smirked at the sappiness.

She’s smiling at Felix, who has been brought to the manor’s library to meet her. He thought it was about time. Children have always seemed to have a natural pull to Felix—those at the markets in Garreg Mach would often marvel at his swords. He’s simply always been a little awkward in response.

“I’m Eli!” the little girl exclaims. “It’s nice to meet you, Felix.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too. Sylvain told me a lot about you.”

She grins, swaying from side to side. “Awh, all the great things about me?”

“That, and how you’re a cheeky little rascal,” says Sylvain, Eli squealing when Sylvain ruffles her hair. Felix cannot help but smile. After all his doubts, he’s able to see in an instant how Sylvain is a perfect father.

“Has Sylvain told you anything about me?” asks Felix.

“Oh, yeah! He told me that you’ve known each other for a _long_ time, way longer than I’ve been around. He said you have nice hair, too.” Eli gives her father a nudge with her elbow. “You know, he’d make a pretty husband.”

“What did I say about trying to get me a new spouse?” Though Sylvain sighs, he’s grinning from amusement. Felix isn’t quite sure on what to say. He’s dwelling on how Sylvain would even think to mention his hair.

“Sorry, sorry!” Eli is clearly not sorry at all. “Ooh, and he said you’re _super_ good at using a sword, too.”

Felix straightens up. “Yes, I’ve been adept at it since even before your age.”

“I wanna see, I wanna see!”

“Only if Felix here is okay with that,” says Sylvain. “He’s been working with a special doctor who’s helping him build up his strength again.”

Felix’s second month of remaining here in Sylvain’s home is approaching—now, he’s been in some kind of physical therapy, getting Felix back into moving his body through what he enjoys. Or is meant to enjoy, at least.

He fails to mention how he’s walking away breathless every time. Not from exertion alone, even if building up his strength _is_ exhausting. No, it’s something else, something he cannot describe. As though something is grasping at his chest and all he can perceive is a desire to get away, as well as those visions which are still refusing to leave him.

“That sounds good,” he says regardless—who is he to deny Sylvain’s child the opportunity to see Felix in action? “The three of us could head to the training grounds.”

“ _Yes!”_ says Eli, pumping her fist in the air. Though Sylvain smiles at her enthusiasm, he glances at Felix with mild concern.

“Are you up to it today?”

Felix nods. He’s certain the more he forces himself to adjust, the easier it will be. After all, how else will he heal, if he doesn’t push himself to do so? How will he ever move on from any of this if he doesn’t take every opportunity to return to the man he once was?

He’s soon taking a training sword in his hand. He’d prefer steel to show his skills off all the more for Eli, however they are somewhat heavier—he’s been instructed to use that which is lighter for now, and knows that Sylvain would be having none of it if Felix attempted to ignore that rule and use whatever he wants instead.

He exhales deeply when holding the sword out in front of him. So far, so good. His movements are slow when rising up on the balls of his feet, before he dashes forward. He earns a gasp from Eli. The sword slashes at a target nearby.

“Speed has always been one of his greatest skills,” says Sylvain. He’s grinning, likely brought back to the past again from watching Felix, although concern still remains on his face. “Careful though, Felix. Don’t push it too much.”

“I’m fine.” And he is, actually. The adrenaline, so much like a drug, is taking over instead. Although he knows he cannot be stupid. Let himself be blinded by this too much, and he’ll exert himself beyond his limits—which, at the moment, is frustratingly dangerous.

He continues the attacks. Relying on instincts, forcing himself to not think, to not feel _anything_ but the rush from swinging this blade. In the background, he can hear Eli’s squeals and words of admiration, and it’s enough to make him smile.

“You’re not this good with a sword, daddy,” says Eli.

“Yes, sweetheart, I know.” Felix stops moving, watching Sylvain instead; his hand has reached for his daughter’s cheek to lightly pinch it. Something stirs in Felix’s chest. “It’s not my fault I don’t specialise in it. It’s a _lance_ I’m best with; you know that.”

“And axes,” says Felix, the father and daughter’s gazes alike dropping on him. “You’re good with them, too. I remember how you’d switch to those sometimes.”

“Better for building muscles,” says Sylvain, flexing with a wink. Eli responds to this by leaping up and hanging from his upper arm with her legs kicking out. Sylvain stumbles a little from the sudden weight, although is quick to straighten himself up again, clearly used to her doing this. He begins to raise his arm up and down for her to cling to. “Don’t let us distract you!”

It’s these words that remind Felix of how he’s simply been standing here, staring. There’s simply something so … mesmerising, about seeing Sylvain with his child. It reminds him of the big brother figure Sylvain had always been during their childhood. As the oldest of the quartet, he would always be like this with them. Those were some of the most enjoyable times of Felix’s life.

Felix’s chest aches, eyes dropping back down to the blade. His grip tightens. Jumping forward, slashing the wooden blade at the target once again. Anything to forget. Although once your brain remembers one thing that haunts you to this day, traumatises you, it is relentless. Never will it stop at that single thought; it will continue on and on, until everything weighs down and crushes you.

His hands are shaking. Breath shortening, world beginning to sway beneath his feet. How selfish he must be, for the screams of his childhood friends to transform into his own, as though his suffering means more than their deaths.

“Hey, Felix, are you done?” Sylvain asks, wandering over. His little girl no longer swings from his arm; instead, she’s holding his hand.

Felix hums. “I don’t think I can do much more.”

“Eli, no,” Sylvain says when she whines. “You remember what I told you, don’t you? Felix got into some trouble and is still hurt. It’s very important that he takes care of himself and doesn’t move around too much, all right?”

Eli nods, her pout quick to be replaced by a guilty expression. “Sorry. I got excited.”

“It’s fine,” says Felix, trying to sound as though he’s not struggling to breathe. Eli doesn’t notice his trembling, how much he’s struggling to keep himself calm, but Sylvain is as observant as always.

“Eli, if you give me ten minutes, we can tend to the horses together today!”

“Yay! Will Felix join?”

“I think Felix needs to head back to bed for a while. But if you go to the stables, I’ll meet you there, okay?”

Eli nods, grinning from ear-to-ear. “It was nice to meet you, Felix!”

“You too,” he can barely manage to say.

Neither he nor Sylvain move, nothing but the latter waving to his daughter, until she is out of sight. This is when Sylvain holds out his hand. He knows to keep a distance, waiting until it’s certain he can touch Felix—still, the latter still ends up recoiling anyway, as much as he despises it.

“I … I …”

“Let’s go over here,” says Sylvain gently. “So we’re not around anyone else.”

Felix nods. He follows Sylvain around a corner, back pressing against a brick wall. Felix exhales a shaky breath, arms wrapping around himself.

Or at least, he tries breathing. He can’t. Not properly. His lungs simply won’t cooperate, his mind is frantic, burdened with piling images—why does it still refuse to leave him alone?

“Felix?”

“Don’t touch me,” says Felix, swearing he sees Sylvain’s hand move.

“I wasn’t going to. I promise. I want you to focus on what’s around you, okay?”

“What’s around …?”

“Things you can see, smell, hear.”

“I don’t—”

How can he think of any of that? When he stares down at the ground, all he sees is a pool of crimson blood. He tastes it as well, awful metallic liquid in his mouth. The scent of that blood, his vomit, fills his nostrils and swirls nausea in the pit of his stomach.

And what he hears … What he hears is something which makes him feel so much shame, he asks himself why he has even bothered to survive, if he’s been reduced to this cowardly excuse of a person.

“ _Please don’t. Please.”_

“ _Did your father beg when you killed him, huh? Did all the people the empire killed as they took over the kingdom?”_

“ _I don’t—p-please, I’m sorry, I don’t—”_ A sob—Felix Hugo Fraldarius, _sobbing_ to his captors. _“Don’t. Please.”_

“Please,” says Sylvain, and Felix’s heart and mind alike become so conflicted in this moment, so overwhelmed by every single emotion he bears, the only way he can react is through tears.

A barricade inside him has broken—everything, all that he has endured, bursts out of him right on the spot. He sinks down to his knees. Hands grip at his hair, falling over a bowed face, and he can do nothing but gasp for air, feel the tears trickling down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying to no one in particular. “I’m sorry.”

“Felix.” Sylvain is in front of him, couching on the floor. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

“Why? Why, after all I’ve done?”

“Have I not done the same?”

Felix shakes his head frantically. “No, you—you’re different, you always have been. All you’ve ever done is protect others, and you rebuilt your home, you’ve continued to protect and I—what have I done?”

“You’ve saved countless lives as a mercenary.” Sylvain’s voice has quietened that little more. “I’ve heard of those tales, you know. There’s many who wouldn’t be alive without you.”

“But did I do it for them, or because the only thing that’s kept me alive is swinging that damned blade and continuing to chase after a corpse?” Felix’s grip tightens. The pain in his scalp burns, a reminder of how he’s alive, when he knows he shouldn’t be as such. “I deserved it, I deserved it all, you don’t—”

“You are the last person to deserve that.” Sylvain takes hold of Felix’s wrists—hesitant, but perhaps ensuring Felix doesn’t hurt himself is a priority. “Look at me, okay? Nothing else.”

There’s less choice to do anything but this now his hands have been brought away from his head. Hesitantly, he lifts that tear-ridden face and meets Sylvain’s eyes. They have never changed. Regardless of the subtle signs of age around them, the facial hair on his face, those honey-brown irises brimming with concern and affection all at once have never once changed in Sylvain’s entire life.

It’s this sight that allows him to recall Sylvain’s instruction; focus on his senses. He suppresses the memories of tasting copper blood, finding the cold air of the Guardian moon fresh in his mouth. His ears listen to Sylvain’s breaths as opposed to screams of the past. Steady, little by little, he allows himself to fall back into the moment.

“Deep breaths,” murmurs Sylvain next. “In and out. Okay, Fe?”

_Fe._ Felix remembers a time where Sylvain said exactly this. One of those rare moments where Felix, following the death of his brother, had been much too exhausted, too in agony, to push Sylvain away when he wanted to comfort the other during a moment of weakness. Sylvain had done the exact same then.

_Breathe slowly. In and out. Take your time, okay, Fe? No rush at all._

“I’m sorry,” says Felix, the exact same words as back then.

“You have no reason to be sorry. _I’m_ sorry, for ever letting them get their hands on you.”

Felix shakes his head. It wasn’t his fault, _never_ has it ever been Sylvain’s fault. It wasn’t him who pushed Felix away. Felix chose this path for himself, that of a man who pretends he is merely alone, and not lonely; one whose only companion for years had been a blade and letters blotched by falling rain and his own dripping blood.

Although … perhaps that isn’t quite Felix’s fault, either. He knows emotions are complex. He would, when all he has done for a long time is run away from them. Perhaps it’s not the fault of a person for never having the guidance they need, or for simply not understanding which is the best road for them. There might not have even been a ‘best’ option for Felix. It’s possible none of it matters at all, and he should focus on is what happens now, as he finally gets to stare into those eyes again.

“There,” says Sylvain; he must be able to hear how Felix’s breaths are steadier. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” The back of Felix’s hand hurriedly wipes at his face. “Pretend you didn’t see that.”

“This time, I have to say no, Felix. You’ve clearly been bottling a lot up.”

“When haven’t I?”

Felix glances down. Sylvain has taken his hand into his own. “Anything you need to say, anything at all,” he says, “you can do so to me.”

Topaz eyes close. For once, the images he sees in that darkness are faded enough for them to not terrify him. “I was already unable to stop thinking of the war,” he says. “Never did it ever stop haunting me.”

“Nor did it for me,” says Sylvain. “Still doesn’t, even.”

Felix nods; he’s certain it is the same for everyone who had stood on that battlefield. “And—you’d think that was enough. But it wasn’t. I can’t stop thinking about what … what happened.”

There’s a thumb tracing over the back of Felix’s hand. It’s smaller than Sylvain’s, as it always has been. He remembers the constant back-and-to in their childhood, where he would insist one day, he’ll end up bigger. Perhaps he is glad he didn’t become that way in the end.

“That’s understandable. It doesn’t make you weak, in case that’s what you’re scared of.”

“Always been able to read me like a book.”

“That’s what happens, when you’ve known each other as long as we have.” A gentle squeeze. “I mean it, too. It really doesn’t.”

“I try to tell myself that,” says Felix. “I do. It’s simply difficult when it is taking so long. But—but all they did, I just …” He exhales, heart beginning to pound again, although for once, he knows that keeping this to himself will not do anything but worsen this. “I never experienced anything like it.”

“It was torture.”

Felix nods. He leans back on the wall behind him, closing his eyes again. “So much of it is merely this black space in my mind. I don’t know everything that happened, what made me first start begging. But I remember some. They’d use magic under my skin, so I felt pain throughout every single damn nerve. They’d heal me after digging knives into me so they could do more without risking death.” Judging by how Sylvain reacts with little more than his grip tightening a little on Felix’s trembling hand, it appears as though this is what the medics have been able to assume from his body, even if he has not been able to find the courage to voice it all himself. “They’d force my head underwater. Burn me. Every goddamn idea you have in the book, they used it. Anything that wouldn’t kill me.”

It feels strange to speak about this. He’s not sure if it helps or not. He assumes, however, that the fact he isn’t bursting into tears again, or having another panic attack, is a feat in itself. Perhaps it helps to speak quickly.

“They wanted to keep you alive as long as possible,” says Sylvain, “so they could keep torturing you in that time.”

Felix nods. That night when they ambushed him, poison of the arrow in his leg causing him to pass out, he truly thought it would be his end. He’s still not sure if he’s glad or not that it wasn’t. “Like I’ve said, I managed to escape. If I stayed longer, I’m not sure what they’d do. Perhaps they _would_ kill me in the end, but … I also wouldn’t have been surprised if they kept me alive for much longer. Never letting the torment stop.” When Felix closes his eyes, he shivers with the memory of cool winds blustering against his skin. Pain searing through sore feet, screaming for rest, although along with the rest of his agonising body, could not spare a moment to do so. “When I was on my way here, I thought a lot about how I could finally … die. How they couldn’t keep me alive anymore.”

“But you didn’t. You’re here, with me.”

“Yes.”

It’s still taking time for Felix to figure out if this is the best option for him. As much of a cliché he finds himself to be in, when Sylvain lifts his hand to press a kiss onto it … No, it might not be enough for him to suddenly feel as though he’s made the right choice by surviving, but it at least reminds him there is still someone who wants him here.

He doesn’t want to live for someone else, but he wonders if there’s harm in having that be one of the reasons for you to push through what is in your path.

* * *

Time passes quicker from now on. A single conversation and some tears are far from a cure, however even Felix cannot deny the progress it has given him. Perhaps it’s important to acknowledge trauma after all. Suppressing it, as he’s learned the hard way, only causes it to come back more relentless than before.

His mind steadily heals alongside his body, although it’s most certainly the latter which does so more. He’s been warned that there might be some permanent damage. It’s frustrating, but he also expects little different. Even he isn’t strong enough to have his body spring back to normal after so much ordeal.

But said body can still do more than it does before. He’s eating normally by now, can be more active. Practising his skills no longer induces panic attacks; he finds thinking of his previous enjoyment in training helps him to get through it without much torment, and if he feels himself experiencing emotional or physical effects, he will stop. Or at least, he’s been working on that. He’s not sure if he will ever move past this constant need to feel strong through productivity.

Spring arrives alongside Felix’s confirmation from the medics that he can now leave the Gautier estate. His emotions in response are confusing. Uncertain if he is joyous, upset. Relieved or disappointed. He’s tried to not become accustomed to seeing the smile of someone he cherishes every single day, although it’s been impossible to not do so.

Is he ready, to push that away and once again be on his own? Is this the life he wants? He has been questioning this the more his body has healed. He still doesn’t have the answer in response, even now.

Because he doesn’t have that answer, he instead lets something else make his decision; cowardice and fear in acknowledging the confusing emotions from staying here. The world out there is frightening. These emotions and the uncertainty of why he experiences them, however, may be more so; he’s not been able to handle them, not for a long time, and it’s only seemed to get worse.

And so, he stands in front of the gates to the Gautier household, returned sword in hand—that which Sylvain gifted to him almost a year ago. Already so long, since they saw each other again. He is once again leaving him behind.

“You don’t have to go,” says Sylvain. It’s the two of them alone, despite how Felix knows Ashe is here, too. The two have spoken a few times when Ashe has enough time to visit. He is someone else Felix will miss. A knight who carries his own ideals.

“On your end, at least. I know you don’t mind me staying.” Felix glances back to the manor. It’s felt different all this time, he has noticed. Now it’s in Sylvain’s hands alone, the corridors filled with the cheerful laughter of his daughter, it can be called a home at last. “On my end, however … I’m not sure if I can stay.”

“If you can’t, I’m definitely not forcing you. Just—please, Felix. Don’t make any rash decisions.”

“It’s funny that you are the one lecturing me about that, these days.” Felix finally wills himself to meet Sylvain’s gaze. The moment he does so, he almost desires to avert his gaze away instantly, although those eyes have been captivating for as long as Felix can remember. “I … I have to admit, it’s not the easiest decision I’ve made.”

“Then you’re free to dwell on it longer.”

Felix smiles from humourless amusement. “I suppose that’s your way of getting me to stay longer.”

“And what if it is?” Sylvain’s chuckle is short, brief. There’s pain in his eyes. “Despite the reason why you’ve had to stay, and all that suffering you’ve endured, there has been enjoyment in you staying, too. It’s been so long since I got to see your face often like this.”

“If I was you, I’d spin that into some stupid pick-up line.”

“Then allow me; it’s a beautiful face to see everyday, and I’d love to wake up with it by my side.”

“There you go,” says Felix. “Happy to fill your flirting quota?”

“Very, thank you.” A pause. Those eyes bearing into Felix could very well be doing so straight to his soul. “Felix, do you think about that day?”

“There’s been a lot of days in my life,” is Felix’s answer, despite how he knows in an instant what Sylvain refers to.

Because there’s one that stands out from the rest. Felix has always mocked himself mentally for allowing it to do as such, for letting his mind wander, his heart flutter, over something as stupid as _romance._ He’s never needed it, despite how secretly, he longed for a connection—it had been this single moment which brought out everything he suppressed.

He swears the words _I love you_ almost left his lips. Although it could have merely been a fantasy.

“I mean the day I made love to you.”

Felix’s eyes close with an exhale. When they open, there’s a slight smile on his face. He’s not sure if it’s fake or real, amused or serious. He’s only certain of how something stirs in his chest. “Please, ‘made love?’ That is far too romantic for us desperately fucking because you almost died, _again.”_

“It was desperate, yes. But it was also real.”

He scoffs, managing to meet Sylvain’s eyes. There is no way Sylvain means the sincerity in them. “I was just another person on your list.”

“No, you weren’t. You were special.”

“How many times have you used that line?”

“A lot. But you’re the only person I’ve meant it seriously to.” There’s a pause. A creasing of Sylvain’s eyebrows, as though he’s struggling to find words. Him, the perfect charmer, never without the art of seduction. That in itself does bring hesitation to Felix. “Felix, I never got over you. Ever. I mean it when I say you’re different. All those things I’ve heard about, with sparks and butterflies and Goddess knows what else—I never got it, ever. I just wanted to feel _something._ And I did, but it was somewhere I wasn’t trying to find it.”

“Don’t say you found it in me.” Felix’s voice is quiet. Afraid, even. Because he’s not sure what a confirmation would mean.

“Yes, Felix. In you. And I was … Actually, as surprised as I was, I can’t say it was a complete shock.” Sylvain smiles, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess when you think about it, we’re a good match, huh?”

Felix shrugs, folding his arms. “I guess. I don’t know. I don’t really know how to respond to—any of this.” Is it a confession? He’s had people confess to him before, although it was never more than baseless crushes he would simply shrug off. He knows, however, how he feels in return. “I thought it was only me who felt something.”

Sylvain shakes his head, smile softening. “Never, Felix. Never would it only be you. But I’m not saying all of this as a reason as to why you should stay. Whether you wanted to be mine or not hasn’t got anything to do with that. No matter how you see me, I want you here, safe. You’re my friend. You always have been. And I don’t want you to go back to a life where you’re alone.”

“Being alone doesn’t mean you’re lonely.”

“No, it doesn’t. But that’s not the case with you, is it?” Felix doesn’t answer. He’s not a liar. “I’ll be upfront about this. I know you won’t be happy returning to your old life. You can try and argue,” Sylvain adds quickly when Felix’s mouth opens, “but that won’t stop me from holding my ground. I know you, Felix. I really do.”

He does, and that is the most terrifying thing. They know each other better than they know themselves. Felix has never had that connection before. And for years, he has distanced himself from it, because it has always been the easiest option than following his heart. The heart is built on emotions—it has only ever hurt him.

Although he also cannot deny how the easiest option is not always a bringer of joy.

“How do you know this is the right place for me?” says Felix. “It would have been easier for me to simply die, back then. And it probably still is now.”

“Would it be, though? Would you not hesitate? Felix, there is a reason you travelled all this way, on the brink of death, rather than simply let yourself die out there. You wanted more. And you knew you could trust me to help you. So rather than die, you came here.”

The nights he spent shivering in the cold, wondering if this will be the time he will finally die, are a blur to him now—he can barely recall a single moment. He knows he thought of all of this, however. Life. Death. Which one he should choose.

Clearly, in that moment, he chose life. But he still does not know how to live it.

“I don’t know what I should do,” says Felix. Almost desperately, needing that answer; Sylvain smiles, the bringer of those answers whenever Felix cannot find them himself.

Sylvain speaks the only language Felix can truly understand. “Spar with me.”

“What?”

“Spar with me,” Sylvain repeats. “If I win, you stay. If you win, you leave.”

Felix blinks, processing those words. He chuckles. “That’s one way to say you want me gone.”

“No, because I will win. Obviously.”

“Hmph. You, win? In your dreams.”

“Only one way to find out.”

There’s silence as Felix stares. A hint of a grin on Sylvain’s face, competitive glint in his eye. All those years ago, Sylvain had this exact expression when he finally got his act together and trained more. He enjoyed it, really. Fighting with Felix. It was a different kind of combat to that which they were accustomed to on the battlefield; though always with the motive of improving and the need to survive, their training was filled with the most fun they had in their lives.

It’s this nostalgia that would make it impossible for Felix to decline.

Minutes later, the pair are stood in the training grounds. A sword in Felix’s hand, lance in Sylvain’s. The former has a slight grin as he runs his hand along the blade.

“Do you not feel guilty for challenging a recovering man to a fight?” he asks.

“What was it you said at one point? _Excuses cannot be made in combat—you always have to be_ _willing_ _to fight when you’re not fully prepared.”_

“Good point. I was only teasing, anyway. I’ll take delight in beating you no matter what.”

He swings the blade to the side. Sylvain puts himself in an offensive stance. It’s noticeably a far more perfected form than when he was younger—Felix noticed as such when the two fought that mission side-by-side, although it’s all the more apparent here.

Felix makes the first move. Leaping off the balls of his feet, sprinting towards Sylvain. He changes course, rolling out of the way when Sylvain’s lance thrusts forward. Always such annoying things.

A leg shoots out to Sylvain. He jumps over it, Felix sliding away and jumping back to his feet. For once, he feels alive.

His sword is swung towards Sylvain. The lance crosses over Sylvain’s chest to block it. Sylvain grins, pushing Felix back and ducking out of the way of a kick aiming for his head. An elbow is sent towards Felix in response. He dodges flawlessly.

Back and to, a dance somehow managing to be no less natural than when they did this in their twenties—if anything, it may even be more so. Perhaps the two have grown to understand each other more than ever in the months Felix has spent in his home.

How much of a waste it would be, for Felix to let all of this go, all because of his own uncertainties on how to accept how he feels.

He loves Sylvain. He does. And he loves the constant grin on Sylvain’s face during this fight, the triumphant gleam in his eyes when he lands a hit on Felix. Felix loves the harsh brow creased by concentration, the bead of sweat trickling down into a well-managed beard. Never, in Felix’s life, has he noticed every small, attractive detail there is in a person, until it comes to his childhood friend.

Felix doesn’t want to win. Not this time. But it’s not in his style to allow himself to lose. He’s grinning as well when Sylvain falls from a swipe at his legs, ready to direct his blade to his neck. That moment never arrives when in a flash, Sylvain has knocked the sword out from Felix’s grip when jumping to his feet, and the tip of his own weapon is directed at Felix.

“Looks like I win,” says Sylvain. Felix lets out a sigh, holding up his hands.

“Not doing best of three?”

“Like you said one time; that’s what losers do.” Sylvain’s lance lowers. “And if we’re not going to go back on our bargain … this means you stay.”

“But …” Felix glances down at the sword on the floor. “What does that mean? What am I expected to do here?”

“Not put that sword away, if that’s what you’re wondering. You can continue work for me as a mercenary. I just don’t want you wandering around aimlessly anymore, never without help.” Felix somehow knows Sylvain is smiling, bringing his gaze back to him to see it. “Just … stay, Felix. Please.”

There’s an ounce of desperation in that face. Sylvain is terrified of him leaving. It’s been almost thirteen years now, since the war ended. Thirteen years, and yet Sylvain still cannot let Felix go. It’s nowhere near long enough to sever the bonds they have.

Those threads thinned, grew weaker, but never have they torn completely. They are possibly now stronger than they have ever been before.

“All right.” Felix’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I’ll stay.”

Sylvain’s face brightens, a smile reaching his face. Perhaps Felix should have expected what happens next. How there’s hands reaching towards him, cupping his cheeks, bringing him into a kiss.

It surprises him. But for the first time, he’s grateful for surprises; he kisses back without a second thought, all the more reminded of how he never wanted to lose what he had been given on that single night.

So much pain, suffering, could have been avoided if he had simply not ran away from all of it. There’s no use, however, in dwelling on what he could have done differently. It doesn’t matter anymore.

He can finally welcome those lips, this warmth, and accept he’s allowed it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I truly enjoying writing out this interpretation and hope you have enjoyed reading it, too. Feel free to find me on Twitter @nikobynight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to follow my heavily FE3H based Twitter, nikobynight (not completely SFW).


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